


All You Zombies

by cleyendecker



Category: The LEGO Movie (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 10:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10091102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleyendecker/pseuds/cleyendecker
Summary: "I know where I came from--- but where did all you zombies come from?"Bad Cop picks up a job as night security at the Air and Space Museum-- but things don't go as smoothly as he had planned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> GUESS WHOS BACK BACK AGAIN GHOST BENNYS BACK TELL A FRIEND
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to @cleversnail for all his help and beta and encouragement and screaming about Bad Cop and Benny with me

In 1987 the spaceship Gemini V burned up on reentry. The ship and her crew were on the return flight from a moonbase resupply mission when a piece of debris the size of a football tore through the left wing of the craft as she approached deorbit. She broke apart in the atmosphere, falling to pieces over a field in California, her brave crew with her. They were mourned as heroes. There was little to recover. A few tiles, a charred piece of equipment. The only thing not burnt beyond recognition was a helmet with the visor cracked straight down the middle.

A memorial was built in their honor at the Space Corps campus, the helmet on display as a reminder of those who gave their lives to touch the stars.

As it so often happens, exhibits shuffled and memories faded. But the memorial remained, with the helmet and the other artifacts, while other exhibits sprung up around it at the Space Corps' Air and Space Museum. It was then things turned unusual.

The memorial and the Space Gallery it was housed in were plagued with unusual noises. Planes in other parts of the museum swung on updrafts when the air was deathly still. And more often than not the cracked helmet would fall off its pillow and violently smash against its plexiglass prison.

A good night security guard was hard to keep. Any night security guard was hard to keep, for that matter. Stories of the museum being haunted spread like wildfire. The 30th anniversary of the Gemini V crash was quickly approaching and the director was desperate to get a new security guard, and hopefully bring some peace to the museum at the same time.

Bad Cop was having a hard time adjusting to life off the police force. Even the nickname stuck. He was badly injured in the line of duty and left with fucked up eye and a bad knee. It was kindly suggested he take his retirement and enjoy his new life. They would carry on without him.

But he's restless, anxious without a job, and sitting around his apartment just makes his knee ache more. His assistant chief keeps in close contact with him, thank God for her, and passes along word that the Air and Space Museum is hiring. Security. Graveyard shift. They couldn't keep anyone longer than a few weeks. B leaps at the chance. Night shift with no one around? Sign him the fuck up.

He has impressive credentials and he's hired right on the spot.

"Thank you, Officer O'Neill, you'll get--" the museum director says, offering her hand.

"O'Neill will do," B grumbles fiercely. Not strictly an officer anymore, though he still carries himself like one.

"Of course, sir," she stammers. She holds the door open for him.

"You'll start tomorrow night, if that's alright. Don't let the other guards scare you," she adds.

B snorts. Like anyone could scare him.

B shows up to his first shift 15 minutes early in his new white and starched uniform, waiting for his supervisor while everyone else files out for the night. Nearly everyone wishes him "Good luck," under their breath. B scowls behind his aviator sunglasses.

His supervisor rushes in, ring of keys jangling, looking harried and nervous.

"Okay, let's get this over with."

"You in a hurry?" B remarks dryly. His supervisor is all but jogging through the main atrium and B has to take large strides to keep up.

"Ah, well, lots to show you." The supervisor doesn't look at him.

"Hmm," B scowls again.

The museum is spacious: a large wagon wheel with another smaller wheel inside. They make their way out from the rotunda, making a right and following the path through the history of early flight, from Wright flyers to biplanes to fighter jets. B makes a mental note to come back and explore the exhibits once he's on his own.

There's an uneasy silence without the air conditioning running, without the sound of people. The shadows of the planes suspended from the ceilings cast odd sharp shadows along the walls. B's supervisor is far from at ease.

"So the, uh, break room is here once you walk through the Pavilion of Flight here, and it takes you to the rest of the museum. The break room has lockers and showers and vending machines and all that good stuff." The supervisor motions to the glass rotunda above them, "and I'll show you where the CCTV is."

He then turns on his heel and follows the curve of the museum wing back through where they came from.

B thinks it odd they're retracing their steps and he's barely listening to his supervisor telling him which doors need to be locked once the museum is empty of guests for the day. Maybe it's his ruined eye playing tricks, but he swears he sees the shadows dancing and following the two men back through the museum.

"So you can sit at this desk here at the front," the supervisor says, visibly sweating now and checking over his shoulder. "This is where the day guards sit and watch the cameras. You can cycle through them here and you don't have to walk through the museum."

"What's in the rest of the museum," B says. It's not a question.

"The, um. Space Gallery. You don't have to walk through there. Don't even worry about it."

B raises an eyebrow and a faint breeze plays across the desk.

"Hm," B says again. Something's up and he doesn't like the feel of it.

With that, the supervisor unclips the massive ring of keys from his belt and deposits it unceremoniously on the desk.

"Your training manual is there, if you have any questions. And if, um...anything weird happens, call me on the radio."

"Like kids throwin' rocks, eh?" B tries a smile. The supervisor gives him a panicked look instead.

"Alright. Well. Good luck, Officer--."

Before B can correct him, he's out the door and locking it behind him.

"Bunch of feckin' lunatics around here," B mutters to himself. He clips the keys to his belt, grabs the flashlight from off the desk, and goes about his rounds.

It's not so bad, really. It's dark and quiet, just how he likes it. No paperwork. No constant noise of the police scanner.

A shadow flickers on his right side just out of his line of sight. This unreliable goddamn eye. His rubs it fiercely.

BANG. CRASH.

It sounds harsh. Metal on metal.

"God almighty." B reaches for his sidearm but finds the flashlight instead. He sighs. Sounds like it came from the "forbidden" Space Wing of the museum. He straightens his uniform with a sharp tug and a determined glint in his eye. Like hell he was gonna sit at a desk all night with intruders roaming around.

B hardly notices the Memorial Wing and completely walks past it until another BANG draws his attention back to it. He clutches his flashlight and grits his teeth. Someone is obviously playing a prank. He remembers what the museum director said. Don't let the other guards scare you. He takes a few steps into the wing, sweeping his flashlight into every corner.

"Who's there?" he growls.

No answer.

The dark mahogany-paneled room is dim, all the lights off save a few recessed lights in the ceiling, reflecting off the glass cases of artifacts. Spotlights are turned towards crew photos--those who gave their lives in the name of science and exploration. All the spotlights are off, except one. B makes his way towards it, flashlight at the ready.

B doesn't remember the photograph of the Gemini V crew being so brightly lit when he walked in. The crew smiles back at him and the card on the wall informs him the crew perished in an accident in 1987. He vaguely remembers watching the news coverage of it when he was nine or ten. The worst space disaster to date. The poor crew looked so young. Five young men and women in blue flight suits, a redhead with a bright smile and summer freckles grinning for all his life in the middle of them. B nods his respects to the memorial and heads back into the space exploration wing.

"HEY."

B whirls around but he can see no one. He curses his eye again, rubbing it angrily, his aviators balanced on his forehead.

"Quit messin or I'll call the police," B shouts into the darkness. He raises his flashlight menacingly. It does little to pierce the gloom of the enormous space.

Three sharp raps come again from the Memorial Wing.

The hair on the back of B's neck stands on end.

"Listen here, you'd better come out or there will be consequences," B's voice echoes through the halls and he's met with another three sharp raps.

It's coming from the artifact cases.

A cracked helmet has moved off its pillow and fallen on its side. B makes a mental note to tell the director so it can get fixed tomorrow. He leans in for a closer look and the helmet slams itself against the display case.

B almost falls over, stumbling back in shock.

"Janey Mac," he mutters, recovering quickly. Must have been a loose floorboard, or perhaps a slight tectonic shift, he thinks. A lorry driver charging by on the road outside. Right, so. Best to leave it alone. He's got too much to do to let a few odd things get the better of him.

Still, he decides he's going to leave that section well alone for the rest of the night.

B makes his way back through the museum, cautiously avoiding the Space Gallery. He doesn't notice the shadows following him.

Back at the front desk he decides to take a break and crack open the training manual the supervisor gave him, thought it's really nothing more than a three ring binder and a handful of laminated pages. He dutifully thumbs through them, making notes to ask his supervisor about later.

Another loud BANG comes from deep within the museum. B turns to the CCTV at his desk. All is quiet and still. He wills his heart to calm down and turns back to his manual.

Hours pass by with only a handful more bangs and odd shadows. B feels himself settle.

The museum is dark and silent at last. He's alone and it's delightful. He could get used to this.

"Listen dude, I'm pulling out all the stops here and you're gonna ignore me?"

B looks up and tumbles out of his chair, papers falling in every direction.

"What--who the fuck?" B stammers from the floor.

There's a figure sitting cross-legged on his desk. It smiles, flashing a mouthful of broken and teeth. Its blue flight suit is torn and bloodied, mission patches peeling at the corners, name bar burned off.

"I'm calling the police!" B manages to spit as he scrambles to right himself and grabs his flashlight.

"To tell 'em what? That you saw a ghost and got spooked?" The figure laughs and vanishes before B can blink.

B sits in shock on the floor, trying to process what just happened. He can't. It makes no sense. No sense at all. God almighty--did he fall asleep? Did he have a bad dream? A nightmare? Surely that's what this must have been. He runs his hands shakily through his hair, takes several deep breaths. He's very tired. It's been a long night. Stress of the new job and all. And it's been a ages since he worked the graveyard shift. He just needs to get used to it once more. Still, it's embarrassing, to be sleeping on the job. He'd best not make that mistake again. He'll bring in his own coffee next shift. B hauls himself back up into his chair and hunkers down with his manual, scanning the CCTV, and waits for morning.

"Good morning, sir!" The supervisor is a little too bright as he unlocks he front door of the museum.

"Mornin'," B nods. It's anything but a good morning. His eye hurts and he's on edge. He wants nothing more than a hot shower and a long nap.

"Anything happ-- how'd it go last night?" The supervisor is almost afraid to ask.

"Wonderful. Whole place was quiet as a mouse," B lies.

The supervisor looks shocked.

"Wait, really? Quiet?"

"Yessir," B says.

The supervisor just looks at him, completely dumbstruck.

"Right, so. See you later tonight then?" B nods, and he's out the door before the supervisor can say anything more.

He drives home, musing about his night. It's definitely not the worst job he's had. And tomorrow is always another day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****_and he said to me these words:  
>  “Don’t you fear for me,  
> I am where I’m supposed to be.”_

B is tired. The previous night took a lot out of him and he'd spent the whole day sleeping, dreams of dead astronauts floating through his head.

Stress does things to a man, he tells himself as he presses his uniform and gets ready for the night. Not that it's a bad thing that the museum's haunted. Surely it's full of friendly spirits too. Definitely not any astronauts. That would just be mad. More than anything he just wanted to put it out of his mind and focus on the job at hand, exhausting as it might be. He reminds himself he could be wasting away on the couch at home or, even worse, back at the station on desk duty.

The security supervisor looks surprised to see him again.

"I almost forgot you were coming tonight!" The supervisor laughs nervously, looking over his shoulder. He's even more twitchy than usual.

"It's my job, isn't it?" B tries another odd half smile but the supervisor doesn't smile back.

"Well, alright. Same as last time: radio if anything weird happens."

And with a rattle of keys and the door slamming behind him, he's gone.

B sighs and sets his coffee mug behind the front desk before he begins his rounds through the museum with keys and flashlight at his belt. It's good to give the old knee a bit of a stretch, he thinks. He likes the satisfying click his shoes make on the marble floors and the soft tap of the keys at his side.

Is that whistling? He pauses, ears pricked toward the source of the sound. As soon as he's still, the sound stops. He quickens his pace through the museum, sweeping his flashlight into every dark corner.

No one. Nothing. He's alone as always.

He's starting to enjoy the quiet, the stillness. He's starting to fall into routine and that's comforting.

The Space Gallery has been suspiciously quiet tonight. A quick sweep of the flashlight reveals nothing unusual but a sudden flash of blue on B's left side catches his eye.

B spins around and comes face to face with the figure who sat on his desk the night before. B swears, dropping his flashlight in shock.

"Okay, you're like the first person I've seen who hasn't shit their pants and quit. What's up with that?" the figure says with a mischievous broken-toothed grin.

B picks up his flashlight, dusts himself off, and turns on his heel without another word. There's an explanation for everything. Even weird things. It's hard adjusting to night shifts--

"I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME," the figure shouts and materializes in front of B.

"What are you doing here?" B finally manages to blurt, holding his flashlight threateningly in front of him.

The figure shrugs.

"Wherever the helmet goes, I go. It's been 30 years, I sure as hell can't explain it," he says. He floats on his back, inspecting B from every angle. B takes note of the dark circles under his eyes and red angry scars across his cheeks. Beyond that, something about his face is familiar. He's seen that face somewhere before.

"I'm dreaming," B shakes his head and mutters, continuing his walk through the museum.

"Nope. You're fine. I'm dead," the figure grins again, floating along next to B.

"Are ye, now," B muses.

"I died in 1987."

That stops B in his tracks, much to the delight of his new friend. His grin lights up the recessed lighting.

"That's mad," B shakes his head.

"Look!" the figure demands, gleefully. He presses himself against the photo of the Gemini V crew. Damned if he wasn't a perfect match for the redheaded astronaut in the center of the photo.

"Dr. Benjamin C. Blue, first class, pilot of the Gemini V," he puffs his chest out proudly. "A little worse for wear but still here."

B looks him up and down, watching him bob and float inches off the floor. He's looking expectantly at B and B is still figuring out what to make of him.

"Why are you still here?" B says finally. He's giving himself a headache trying to wrap his head around everything that's happened in the past ten minutes.

Benjamin sighs dramatically, a far off and tinny-sounding sigh. "If I knew that I would have sailed off ages ago."

"Right. So." B gives him a nod and makes his way back to his desk. His head is pounding fiercely in his skull.

"Wait--that's it?" Ben is incredulous.

B shrugs. "What do you want me to say?"

Ben gesticulates wildly. "'Oh my god wow you're so cool?' 'Wow I'm so scared!' How about those to start?"

B can't help but grin at the fierce ball of anger in front of him.

"Um. I'm very scared," B tells him very seriously, but Ben is pouting and doesn't look pleased.

"No you're not! I'm feeling so disrespected right now," Benny pouts.

B is at a loss for words and all he can do is blink over his aviators. "Well, sorry about that," he says as he turns on his heel and heads back to his desk.

The ghost--figure--Ben, doesn't seem to have followed him so B lets himself relax and sinks into the desk chair. He rubs his temples and pats his pockets for a pack of cigarettes before remembering he gave up the habit. He sighs deeply, internally weighing the pros and cons of picking it back up again.

"What's your deal anyway?"

B looks up and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Benny sitting cross-legged on his desk.

"Jaysus," B grimaces and wills his heart to be still.

Ben looks at him curiously, clearly expecting an answer to whatever the hell his question was.

"What's my deal?" B raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah. It's night. What's with the glasses? And the grumpy?" Ben asks.

B slowly raises his aviators and stares pointedly with his ruined eye. "Good enough for you?" he grumbles.

Ben grins gleefully. "Super gross. How did that happen?"

"Let's not talk about me anymore," B says brusquely. He absently taps at the keyboard and cycles through the cameras since Ben shows no intention of leaving any time soon.

"I can't believe you're not scared," Ben says, almost too cheerily.

"I've got a job to do," B says.

"So did like, a dozen other guys that came before you. Shit--they got scared, like one time, all I did was like throw a trashcan around and 'OH MY GOD--"

"Don't you have something else to do?" B interrupts.

Ben blinks once, twice. "No. Of course not." There's a beat of silence between them before Benny launches right back into his mile-a-minute chatter.

B's only half paying attention to the cameras now, instead eyeballing the frantically energetic figure in front of him.

He's animated and gestures wildly as he tells his stories, talking a thousand miles an hour and the way he grins as he talks and shakes an errant curl from his forehead is magnetic and B can't tear his eyes away, as hard as he tries.

Something about this--Ben--is completely and utterly fascinating.

"Are you even listening to me?" Benny teases, his grin bright and manic.

"I'm not staring," B insists but he feels his face grow hot.

"I never said you were!" Ben is absolutely delighted. His laugh makes the lights surge and twinkle.

B decides to ignore him and settles down into his computer but he can feel Ben's stare boring into him and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"You're a bold one, aren't you?" B mutters. A sudden chill sends goosebumps up and down B's arms and there's a whisper too close to his ear.

"You have no idea," Ben whispers, low and deep as he can get his small tinny voice and B feels an electric shiver all the way down to his toes.

B swats madly at thin air but all he's met with is an infuriating giggle. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Ben was not going to let him off easy. B sighs, massages his temples again.

"Okay, fine. You can...do what you like. Just let me do my job in peace?" he says with resignation.

Ben leans in close, a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes. "I can't make any promises," he says.

In a blink of an eye he's vanished again, leaving nothing behind but the sound of a dozen crashing trash cans.

B massages his temples again, and makes mental note to bring aspirin to his next shift.


End file.
